


A Love That Binds

by Calais_Reno



Series: Just Johnlock [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Coming Out, Confused John, Don't Post To Another Site, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Season/Series 04, Supportive Sherlock, complicated feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:40:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27084997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: Even Sherlock Holmes is human enough to know that love is more than the things that bind us; it’s the things that set us free. John doesn’t need to ask, he only needs to say it.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Just Johnlock [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856749
Comments: 38
Kudos: 162





	A Love That Binds

“My, um, aunt is in hospital,” John says. “She’s, um… dying.”

“You’re going to see her.” Sherlock looks up from his laptop. “Shall I go with you?” His words are tentative, his eyes guarded.

“No, that’s not… not necessary,” he says. “I wasn’t… I’m not close to her.”

“But if you’re going, and it’s someone important to you…” Sherlock studies him silently. “Your aunt.”

“It might… it’s hard to tell, might be days before… well.” He clears his throat. “And I know you’d rather spend your time around people who’ve already died… been murdered…” It’s a joke, but he stops, realising how horrible it sounds. “I mean, you don’t know her, so it’s fine. You don’t need to come with me.” He shifts uncomfortably.

“Your aunt. Edith, Edna, Enid…”

“Millie.”

“That’s the one. You visited her last year, for her birthday. I could come up for the funeral,” Sherlock says.

“You hate funerals.”

“But we’re…” He gestures vaguely between them. “You.. I… that’s what people do. If it’s someone important to you, I should be there. For you. Because we’re… together.”

They’ve been _together_ only for a short time. Adjustments on both sides, but on the whole Sherlock, who has always appeared to have little social intelligence, seems to be adjusting to their new relationship with less inner turmoil _._ John, who has always explained the rules to Sherlock _,_ is now the one who is more often awkward and confused about how he is supposed to act.

And here is Sherlock, volunteering to do something he hates to do, simply because they’re _together._

“It’s all right. You didn’t know her, so no one will expect you to be there.”

Sherlock nods, but there is still a question in his eyes. “If you think so. If that’s what you want. Will you bring Rosie with you?”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea. She’s not really old enough to understand. Do you mind…?”

“Of course not. And Mrs Hudson can watch her if something comes up. We’ll be fine.”

“Thank you. I’ll be back in a few days. I’ll text you.”

Harry meets him at the train station in Edinburgh. She looks better than last time he saw her, he thinks. For years, she’s dyed her hair a brassy blond, but now she’s allowed it to go natural, more grey than his, and cut even shorter. She’s thinner, too. In spite of the grey hair, she looks younger.

“You’re seeing someone,” he says.

“Actually, no. And I’m okay with that.” She smiles. “What about you?”

‘I’m… yeah. Actually, it’s Sherlock. We finally realised.”

She grins. “Took you long enough. I’m happy for you.”

“How is she? Any prognosis?”

“The doctors said she might last a week.” She pops the boot open and he lifts his bag inside. “No telling, though.”

“Is she conscious?”

“Off and on. She’s in a lot of pain, and they’re medicating that. No life-sustaining measures, which is what she wanted.”

He nods, slides into the seat beside her.

“Is Sherlock coming?”

“No. He hates funerals.”

Harry doesn’t start the car. She turns and faces him. “It’s your mother, John. She’s dying, and he doesn’t care enough to be with you?”

John looks down, worries the hangnail on his thumb. “I told him… I said it was my aunt and that he didn’t need to come.”

She clicks her tongue, shakes her head. “Really, John. What are you afraid of?”

He doesn’t answer, stares out the window of the car. She turns the ignition, checks the mirrors, and backs out of the spot. In a short time they’re out of the car lot and on the road.

“I know you’re not ashamed of him,” she says. “You love him. So why haven’t you told him? More importantly, why have you never told Mum?”

“Told him what? That my mother is a homophobic nightmare? As for telling her, I’m not interested in fighting that battle.”

“Or maybe you don’t want to give up your privileged position as the _good_ son.”

He turns to look at her now. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” she says. “I went first, took on the role of the lesbian alcoholic bad girl, and you saw an opportunity to be the straight, successful, good son.”

“It’s not like I didn’t have to make my own way,” he reminds her. “She and Dad weren’t exactly supportive. I paid for my own education, you know.”

“There are other benefits to being the favoured one. You avoided all the fights. Now that I think of it, that’s kind of ironic, since you’re the one who joined the army. And you used to get into scraps all the time at school.”

“Dad would’ve beaten the stuffing out of me if I didn’t fight back. But arguing’s different. I don’t like arguing. Never seen the point, really— not with her or Dad. Mum’s always convinced she’s right. It’s like pissing into the wind. Why should I put us both through that?”

“She’s dying, John. We’ve known this for months. And I agree, she is not going to change her mind. But at least I told her what I was. I always introduced her to my girlfriends, just to force her to deal with herself. She may not have liked what I was, but she respected my honesty.”

“It’s not the same,” he says. “Look, I can’t talk about this.”

She shrugs. “Fine. Say it or don’t. Not my problem.”

They ride in silence for a quarter of an hour. Suddenly Harry snorts. He looks over and sees her stifling a laugh.

“What?”

“I was just thinking about that time when Dad decided we were going to have a real holiday, a proper trip to the wilderness, where we’d live the way nature intended. Fresh air and sunshine, all that rot. And once we were on the road—“

John snorts too. “Yep. Ran out of petrol. Miles from anywhere.”

“And the place— when we finally got there—“

“Ugh, it was horrible. The romantic stone cottage he promised us was a leaky cow shed.”

“And the lovely lake was a mud hole,” she adds.

“And there were snakes.” John is laughing now. “The Swiss Family Watson, castaways in the wilderness.”

Harry chuckles. “Mum never let him hear the end of that disaster. We did have some adventures, didn’t we? It’s kind of miraculous that we both survived childhood.”

He nods. “The Christmas dinners alone might have killed us.”

This starts Harry laughing again. “Oh, god— Mum burning the goose, all the windows open and the smoke alarm going off.”

“We couldn’t flame the pudding because Dad drank all the whisky. Mum was so mad she poured his beer down the drain.”

“Remember the year we decided Father Christmas was going to bring us a dog? And we got a goldfish instead?”

“Remember when Mum flushed the goldfish down the loo?”

“To tell it now, it sounds like a comedy,” Harry says. “God, they were so unprepared for raising kids. They did try, though.”

John stares out the window, remembering. “They brought us up as they’d been raised. No psychology, just old-fashioned abuse.” He doesn’t exactly feel good about this, but he does understand it. He thinks of Rosie, born to a father who hasn’t a clue, a mother who ran off and left her, came back, and eventually got herself killed. _What a legacy_.

He imagines Rosie grown, meeting someone special, introducing him. _My dad._ She probably won’t mention the times he’s messed up, but he’s sure there will be more along the way, the things he’ll say that will make her cringe, the times he’ll put his foot down and only realise later that he’s wrong. There will be many of those, because he hasn’t any idea how to raise a daughter, not really.

Sherlock is already better at this than he is. His parents never beat him, and they appear to accept who he is. _They’re so ordinary_ , he thought when he met them. How did they manage a child like Sherlock? Whatever they did, however asocial he is with adults, Sherlock has a natural rapport with Rosie, teaching her and singing to her and sitting with her at night when she wakes and John is too weary to get out of bed.

He gazes at the passing landscape. They’re out of the city now, heading for the care facility where she’s lived for the past four years, ever since she fell and broke her hip. He had to manage all of that on his own, while Sherlock was gone and Harry was going through rehab again. She didn’t want to be _locked up_ in one of those places, Mum said. He’d tried to be patient, but they’d argued. Her own parents hadn’t lived long enough to need that kind of care, but she’d expected something from him that he couldn’t give.

He remembered calling Harry finally, saying _I can’t do this._ And her reply: _You don’t have to. She doesn’t really want to live with either of us. She just wants it to be her choice._ And Harry came and talked to her, and she argued, and finally told them both to go home. She chose.

“I don’t know what to say to her.”

She smiles. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

It’s like a hospital, but without all the normal bustle. The only patients in this wing of the care facility are people who are bedridden, or those who are dying.

His mother has numerous health issues— emphysema, arthritis, and diabetes; she’s had cancer twice, breast and lung. Her own habits are the source of most of her problems. She’s had a smoker’s cough as long as John remembers. Sherlock knows how much he hates the smell of cigarettes, and respects that, but John has never said that it’s because his mother always smelled like an ashtray. Both of his parents did. Cigarettes and booze. He imagines someone having a childhood where these things never made appearances, such a person growing to adulthood and seeing them as glamorous, forbidden, rebellious. Both he and Harry drink, sometimes too much, but it was more of a surrender than a rebellion. Neither of them smokes.

His mother isn’t allowed either now, and it makes her cranky. If she has a last request, it will probably be for a cigarette.

Harry leads the way into the room. She’s been here every day since they called and told her it wouldn’t be long. John knows that “any day now” can stretch into weeks, and it’s almost more than he can stand to think about. He wants to just say what he’s expected to say, accept condolences, and go back home. Dying is never pleasant. He’s used to that. This kind of slow death is boring, sitting around, taking turns in the room so the other can have a breather, buying magazines to read because sitting next to your dying mother reading a thick novel for some reason just seems wrong.

Thinking this makes him feel guilty, but it’s the truth. He’s seen this same drama play out with patients’ families more times than he can count.

A nurse is holding a tablet, taking notes and simultaneously making small talk with her patient. He does the same thing himself, visiting patients, distancing himself because otherwise it’s too draining.

“Hello, Mum,” Harry says. “I’ve brought John.”

She looks up, and he thinks how much she’s shrunk since Christmas. He remembers the pretty girl in a photo with his father, just twenty-two when Harry was born, twenty-six when he came along. She’s seventy now and, improbably, it’s her heart that’s giving out. With all the other things wrong, her heart has kept on until now. There were times when John thought she didn’t have a heart.

He feels ashamed for thinking this, approaches her bedside preparing himself to be the good son once more.

“My son,” she says to the nurse. “He’s a doctor. Dr Watson.”

She’s always been proud of that, at least, even if she didn’t approve of his stint in the army. She was even less happy that he gave up surgery. He should have gone into joint replacements, she always said. Then he’d be well-heeled and she wouldn’t have to live in a care facility.

The nurse smiles blandly at him. “Nice to meet you.” She looks down at her patient. “Millie’s comfortable today and ready for some company.”

Harry takes the chair by the wall, leaving the bedside chair for him. He smiles, asks her how she feels, listens to her litany of complaints. Nobody answers her calls, she claims, and the staff are going through her belongings, taking things because they know she’ll soon be gone. She wants cigarettes. Why should it matter now?

John points out that she’s receiving oxygen and open flames are not a good idea.

The litany begins again, from the top of the list.

The morning goes by slowly. They sit together, Mum watching the telly. At one points she turns to him and says, “I never met your wife.” A few minutes later she asks about Rosie. He shows her a couple pictures on his phone, carefully omitting the ones with Sherlock in them.

He and Harry talk to one another, while she dozes and wakes, dozes again. After a while, Harry takes a break, and when she returns, John goes for a cup of coffee.

It’s late afternoon when he finally makes up his mind. Harry has gone to run some errands, promising to return in a half an hour. She gives John a significant look when she leaves. _It’s time. Your turn._

“Mum,” he says.

She opens her eyes and looks at him, gives him a half-smile and takes his hand, squeezes it. Closing her eyes again, she says, “I’m glad you came.”

“Of course,” he says. “‘Course I came.”

She pats his hand. “I know I haven’t been the best mother.”

“You did your best.” This doesn’t sound like much. He imagines Rosie saying this to him one day. _You did your best, Dad. I don’t blame you._

But he can’t help it. He does hold his mother responsible, though not for her intentions. She had meant well, hadn’t she? The way she raised him and Harry, well, it wasn’t the best. He understands that now. But it could have been much worse. Being a parent is one of the hardest jobs there is. Now he knows that, and it gives him a bit more sympathy.

His relationship with his parents is one key to his own identity. Some part of who he became is a result of her and his father. Nature and nurture. Genetics, economics. Early habits, first lessons. All of these things shaped him. Not that it matters now.

A deathbed is a place for confessions, so he tells her the truth.

“I’ve made mistakes, Mum. I’ve hurt people, and I haven’t always been honest. I’m trying to be a better person.”

“You _are_ a good person, Johnny.”

“No, I’m not. I’m trying, but sometimes I’m not sure what I’m doing.”

“You’ll find someone.” She seems to intuit what is behind his words. “You’ll fall in love and get married, give my granddaughter a new mum.”

“I _have_ met someone,” he says. “It’s someone I’ve known a long time. I just didn’t recognise what is was until… but now, I’m trying to fix that and be a better person. I want to be the person he thinks I am, the person he loves.”

She opens her eyes and really looks now. Her eyes, once blue, have become a faded grey. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying… I’m in love with a man. I’m gay, Mum.”

She huffs, a small sound of disbelief.

“You’ve never met him,” he says. “I never wanted you to. But now I want you to know that I’m in love, and I’m happy, and I’m going to do everything I can to make it work.”

“Why are you telling me this? Do you want my forgiveness?” Her look is sharp.

He had expected this question. He still doesn’t know how to answer it.

“I don’t want anything,” he says after a moment. “I just wanted to tell you.”

She looks at him intently, the lines of her face deeply etched in a frown. “I admit I wasn’t always right, but I did what I _knew_ was best, for both you and Harry. So don’t blame me for what you are.”

“I don’t. I know you tried, and I don’t blame you. If I ever did, I’ve let it go. _Who I am_ is my own responsibility. There isn’t any point in me telling you this now, but there never really was a point, was there?”

She sniffs and looks away. “You feel guilty. You knew I’d be disappointed.”

“Yes. I didn’t want to disappoint you. But I should have done, a long time ago. Harry told you, and I should have done the same. It just took me so long to figure it out.”

“You were married to a woman,” she points out.

“I was, but it was a mistake. Whatever else was wrong about that marriage, the main reason it was a mistake is because I was in love with someone else.”

She seems to suddenly apprehend. “It’s him. That detective.”

“Yes. Sherlock Holmes. I’m in love with him.”

“He’ll leave again, you know. Men always do. It’s women who hold families together.”

“I don’t believe that,” he replies. “You tried to hold us together, and it might have been better to let go. Dad left, and then Harry left, and it was just you and me.”

“And you left. You went against me, joined the army, moved away.”

“Children are supposed to leave, eventually. If parents do their job, children grow up and become independent.”

“And forget their obligations. You’ve only come now because Harry reminded you it’s your duty. And you tell me— _this_ _—_ because you feel guilty. Well, I won’t give you satisfaction. I don’t forgive you.”

“I accept that.” The words come, unbidden. “But I forgive _you_ , Mum.”

She looks at him for a long time, her milky eyes magnified behind the thick lenses.

Harry is standing at the door. She gives John a small smile, comes to the bed and leans in to kiss her mother. “We’ve got to go now, Mum. We’ll be back tomorrow.”

He stands too, and kisses her cheek. “Goodbye, Mum.”

She says nothing.

He stays in Harry’s flat. They bring in takeaway, doner kebab, because Harry’s given up on the vegan thing and just wants hunks of meat. The drink beer and sit on the sofa, watching telly. They don’t talk about their mother or reminisce about their childhood.

He calls Sherlock to let him know he’s here and that nothing has happened yet. Sherlock sends him a selfie: he’s sitting on the sofa with Rosie, reading a book to her. Rosie gets on the phone and babbles about a dog they saw in the park today. She’s obsessed with dogs, and Sherlock’s been hinting that they should consider getting her one. He and Sherlock talk until it’s Rosie’s bedtime.

“You can call me later, if you need to talk some more,” Sherlock says.

“Thanks, I think I’m just gonna go to bed,” he says. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Good night, John.”

“I love you, Sherlock.” It isn’t the first time he’s said it, but he’s never told him over the phone. It feels different.

“I love you, too, John,” Sherlock replies. “I’m sorry you have to go through this.”

He closes his eyes, imagining Sherlock looking at him when he says _I love you, too._ His eyes would be soft, his mouth turned down.

“It is what it is,” he says. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Sometime towards morning, his mother passes away, peacefully, in her sleep. The nurse calls Harry at six and tells her. She wakes John and they drive over to talk to people about what needs to be done.

Harry grows teary when they’re brought in to see her. John is used to evaluating the signs of death, noting lividity and rigor of the body, estimating time of death, but this is different. The nurses had clearly made an effort to make her look comfortable. Even so, he is shocked at the change in his mother. Her hands are frozen into fists, as if she was ready to fight when death came. Her knees are bent, her mouth slightly open, her eyes closed. It’s as if she is no longer a person, but a shell once inhabited by one.

He doesn’t cry, and feels ashamed at this.

A counsellor has been assigned to help them through all the necessary things, the death certificate, the closing of accounts, the funeral. They spend the day driving around, getting things done. They buy a coffin, talk to the priest, order flowers for the church, visit the bank to see about closing her accounts. There isn’t much property to dispose of. In her room there are only a few items of clothing, some jewellery, a couple of crossword puzzle books, and a Bible. Harry says that she has a box of mementos back at her flat. They can look at that tonight.

Because there isn’t much family to notify, and most are local, the funeral will be in less than a week, on Tuesday. Harry calls relatives while he talks to the priest about the service. They never went to church as children; he has no idea what her favourite hymns were, what scripture she might want read. The priest assures him that he’ll pick things that families usually like.

Together, he and Harry look through her purse and figure out who else to call— bank, doctor, credit cards, mobile phone. John argues with the phone company when they tell him they won’t close her account until the end of the month. “My mother won’t be using the phone between now and the end of the month,” he tells them. “She’s dead.” It sounds harsh when he says it, but euphemisms serve no purpose now. His mother is deceased, has left this veil of tears, passed away, expired. She is dead.

Harry is watching him when he hangs up the phone. “It’s okay, Johnny. Go make yourself some tea. I’ll call the credit cards.”

They settle her final bill at the care home and donate her clothes to charity.

He calls Sherlock and tells him the funeral is Tuesday, so he should be home by Wednesday.

“Are you all right?” he asks John.

“I’m fine. It’s just… a lot.”

He doesn’t offer to come up to Edinburgh, and John doesn’t ask.

The night before the funeral, Harry pulls out the box of mementos and they look through it together. The little pendant watch John gave her before he left for the army is still in the original box. It cost him a lot of money then, and he felt proud to be able to give her something elegant. She kept it in her drawer, saying it was too good for everyday— and anyway, the hands were so tiny she couldn’t see them very well. Instead, she wore her cheap digital wristwatch. Harry offers the pendant to him, but he declines.

There’s a photo album, all pictures of Harry and John, a few including their father, who left about the time when Harry did. He’s been dead for years, before John went to Afghanistan. A photo of John in his uniform, a copy of his wedding invitation, a framed collage of the wedding. A Good Conduct Award (John’s) and a blue ribbon for best art work (Harry’s). Reports from the schools they attended, showing their marks. Harry’s have quite a few comments (distractible, unable to sit quietly, assignments not completed). John’s marks were better, but the reports say little about him as a person. A pile of papers they wrote for school, Harry’s art work and John’s stories. The stories are mostly juvenile, nothing he’ll ever share with his daughter, but he puts them in an envelope and tucks it in his suitcase.

A shoebox contains cards the two of them made for her when they were small. Greeting cards were expensive, so they usually made their own out of whatever they found lying around the house. Some are just hearts cut from pink paper and stuck with glitter, but others are more creative. On one, Harry has drawn a trophy and carefully lettered: _Best Mother in the World._ A later one was John’s idea: they’ve faked the signatures of all sorts of famous people: Queen Elizabeth, Mick Jagger, Charles Darwin, Monty Python, Shakespeare, all of them wishing her a happy birthday.

He stares at all this evidence of love and feels deflated. “I didn’t say I loved her.”

Harry smiles and plucks the card from his hand. “You didn’t have to. She knew.”

Tuesday morning is overcast. The church is nearly empty except for a few cousins and some of the nursing staff from the care home. John and Harry sit in the front row. One of them ought to be greeting those who’ve come to pay their respects, but Harry doesn’t budge; for John, it just feels like too much.

He is thinking about his mother, the woman who more than any other has made him what he is, flaws and all. She didn’t forgive him, and he accepted it. Mothers don’t get to say how you live your life, what you believe, whom you decide to love. She did her job as well as she could, as Harry pointed out, and his mistakes are not her fault.

He offered her his forgiveness, and he’s not sure what he was forgiving her for. All children try to be what their parents want, follow the rules they impress on them. He only realised after he left home that what he had blindly accepted about himself was wrong. And even then, it wasn’t something he could comfortably admit.

It isn’t even just about his sexuality. It’s about being a perfect child, a good boy, the kind of man she taught him to be. _Don’t cry. Fight back. Just do your job and don’t complain. Don’t think you’re better than other people. Get married and have a family._

He remembers her making fun of a boy he befriended, a twelve year old who was obviously not interested in sports or games. He even had a sissy name: _Percy_. John liked talking to him, invited him over to play chess, went over to his house to do homework. After his mother ridiculed him, John stopped inviting him, turned down invitations to do homework or eat lunch together. The last he heard, Percy was married with three children, a successful author of mystery novels.

Something Harry said that first night has stuck with him. _The first child picks an identity out of gut instinct; the second child looks at how that turned out and goes in the opposite direction._ He was more or less a walking exemplar of that principle. Harry rebelled. Something in her character demanded that she challenge rules. John observed: he saw her sent home from school, heard the arguments with his parents, noted the way other kids treated her. That wasn’t what he wanted, so he chose. He respected rules, tried not to disappoint.

He and Harry are binary, opposite valences, always pushing away from each other, but inexorably bound together by their mother’s expectations, her imperfect love.

Birth order isn’t destiny, but sometimes it feels like it. Harry has made improvements, learning from her mistakes. She hasn’t quite given up drinking, but she’s cut back. She left London after finding a better job in Edinburgh, started spending time with new people.

He wanted to be a different person, one worthy of Sherlock’s love, a better parent to his daughter than the parents he’d had. At his own funeral, he doesn’t want Rosie to be angry with him, resentful of how he forced her into a path she hadn’t chosen. He’d forgiven his mother. Now he needed to forgive himself.

The service is short; he barely hears the priest’s words from the pulpit. _In my father’s house are many mansions…_

The house he grew up in was small, and there was no escaping the tension, the underlying anger. Life had disappointed his parents. Their legacy to John was a desperate need to make up for their disappointment, to be the son they wanted. They bequeathed to him a fear of loving too much and a sense that he could never be enough for anyone. It’s not a gift; it’s the pitiful leavings of two lives spent without much joy. And like the box of mementos, he can refuse to carry it home, to pass it on to his daughter. He can create a different legacy for her.

And Sherlock— he can be a better partner for him. Up until now, he has kept parts of himself away from him, thinking it would only hurt their relationship. He needs to show him what he’s been hiding, stop feeling shame. That’s what it is, he recognises. Shame. He hasn’t been protecting Sherlock from his mother; he’s been ashamed of who they are, using her eyes to judge them both. That has to stop.

He pats the phone in his pocket. As soon as he gets out of this church, he’s going to call Sherlock and tell him: _I love you. I want to stop hiding._

He and Harry follow the casket out. As he passes those who stand in the pews, people in muted hues, their faces solemn, he recognises none of them, but nods all the same. He feels like a trespasser here, in this church. Whatever faith he had as a child was lost before he grew up. His mother had believed, in her own way, but they never talked about it. Maybe it was like the insurance policy she always kept up, no matter how poor they were, shoving coins into the little tin box she kept for that purpose. That policy, always paid up, has provided enough for her funeral. She would have been proud of that, he thinks. She left no debts for her children to settle.

The organ is playing softly, and strangers look at him with sympathy.

All the way in the back of the church, sitting alone, is Sherlock. John is so surprised that he stops walking and stares. Sherlock nods, looking uncertain. _Did I do it wrong?_

John holds out his hand, pulls him into a hug. “Thank you,” he whispers.

Hand in hand, they walk out to the hearse, where Harry is waiting, a knowing smile on her face.

Others begin to flow out of the church, come towards them to offer condolences.

“John, this is Mum’s cousin Lillian,” Harry says, introducing a woman of about seventy in a powder blue suit.

“Of course, I remember.” John takes her hand. “And this,” he says, putting his arm around Sherlock, “is my partner, Sherlock Holmes.”

Each person who comes by to shake his hand receives the same introduction. The smiles he receives in return are sometimes strained, but more often sincere.

“He’s lovely,” says cousin Lillian, squeezing John’s hand as she leaves. “You’re a very lucky young man.”

“Yes, I am,” he replies.

“I wasn’t sure,” Sherlock says on the train. “Before you left, you seemed divided. I didn’t want to overstep. And then Harry called.”

He nods. “I knew it. When I saw you there, I just knew she’d called you.”

“She told me what your mother said. I’m sorry.”

“I suppose you knew she wasn’t my aunt.”

“I’ve seen your birth certificate, John. I know your parents names. Aside from the likelihood of your mother and a cousin on your father’s side having the same first name, when an elderly, infirm aunt dies, one would not expect her distant nephew to look so distraught. I only remember you mentioning her once, when we were discussing wedding invitations. You said to send one to your aunt Milly, but not to expect her because she’d just had surgery.”

“You don’t mention your parents much, either,” he replies. “I didn’t even know they existed until after— well, that day at your flat.”

“But you told me both your parents were dead. _Without kith or kin_ , as you put it. Not counting Harry, I suppose, because you weren’t speaking to her at that time. In any event, I began to put it together when you got the call last week, and Harry confirmed it.”

“We had a difficult relationship,” he says. “After I left home, I began to realise the extent to which she had controlled me. I wasted so many years trying to be what she wanted instead of being who I was. I forgave her that, but it’s hard to let go.” He shakes his head. “If I hadn’t been so busy trying to be the perfect son— _not gay—_ I might have realised my feelings for you sooner.”

“And you might have ended up with someone else,” Sherlock adds. “If you’d been open about your feelings, you might have fallen in love with someone else before you ever met me.”

The train lurches a bit, rocking them into one another, and then settles back into a rhythm.

He sighs. It’s perfectly true. He wasted a lot of time dating women and trying not to think about men, thinking he could control his feelings by willing it so. But those relationships taught him things, and he can’t regret where he is now.

“I owe you an apology.” He squeezes Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock raises John’s hand to his lips and kisses it. “What for? Because you lied? Sometimes a lie makes more sense than the truth.”

“I know that. I mean, I haven’t been brave enough to publicly admit what I feel for you. In our bedroom, I can say it, but I haven’t been able to say it to any of our friends. And I told you not to tell, either. You must think I’m ashamed.”

“Our relationship is no one’s business but ours.” He looks at John. “Not even our parents.”

“But you’ve told yours, haven’t you?”

“John.” Sherlock smiles. “This is all new to both of us. We’ve only been _together_ a few days. We haven’t even had intercourse.”

John feels his ears burning as he remembers their first fumbling attempts at sex. “Yeah, I guess we’re still figuring it out.”

“Correct. And no, I haven’t told my parents. Mycroft deduced it, of course, but I told him to keep his mouth shut. You asked me not to tell anyone yet, and I haven’t.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” he says. “I want everyone to know.” He leans his head on Sherlock’s shoulder and begins to cry.

Sherlock’s arm goes around him, holding him close. He doesn’t speak and John knows that he fears saying the wrong thing.

John feels as if he’s been holding tears back for days, since Harry’s phone call. His mother died, and he didn’t cry for her, but he cries now for this, for letting Sherlock down, for fearing what people would think.

“I’m a coward,” he finally whispers. “For years I’ve been afraid to admit the truth.”

“You’re not,” replies Sherlock. “You’re the bravest and best man I know. I feel privileged to be loved by you.”

“She didn’t forgive me.”

“You don’t need her forgiveness, or her acceptance. You need to forgive and accept yourself.”

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says miserably. “I’ve never had a relationship that lasted, I don’t know how to raise a child, and now I want all of that. I don’t want Rosie to be ashamed of me, to tell me I’ve been a good father when we both know I’m not. I lose my temper, I am either too strict or too lenient, and I have no patience—“

“We’ll figure it out, John. It will be all right.”

He draws a deep breath. “I want to be eighty and still in love with you.”

Sherlock gives him the most beautiful smile, the one that crinkles his eyes and makes all his chins appear. “I look forward to it.”

When he and Sherlock come through the front door, Rosie runs to him, screaming, “Daddy!” Sherlock has thought ahead; as soon as she’s finished telling John about every dog that she and Nana saw at the park, he gives her a present _from Daddy and Papa,_ a small stuffed dog.

It’s late, and Mrs Hudson is apologetic about letting Rosie stay up. “She was so excited about seeing you, I couldn’t get her to sleep.” She tells them that Rosie will spend the night with her, as she promised, and they can come get her in the morning, whenever they’re ready.

“Mrs Hudson,” John says. He watches Rosie, who is making her new toy jump on the furniture. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” He takes Sherlock’s hand. “What would we do without you?”

He doesn’t say it, but she sees and smiles. She puts her arms around them, rises up on her toes and gives them each a kiss on the cheek. “My boys.”

They take turns in the bath. John comes out wearing his pyjamas, and Sherlock says, “I made tea, if you’d like some.”

When Sherlock is done showering, they sit looking at each other across the table, sipping their tea.

It’s Sherlock who finally breaks the silence. “Let’s go to bed, John. I’d very much like to make love with you.”

“I’d like that, too.” He grins, feeling like a teenager.

He takes John’s hand and gently pulls him to his feet, into an embrace. Their mouths meet, and John wonders if he’s ever really loved before. He’s been angry for years, thinking he couldn’t have this. His anger doesn’t alter anything that’s happened. He can hold onto it, or he can let it go.

 _I forgive you._ _I forgive myself._

As the kiss deepens, his breath quickens. He inhales Sherlock’s scent, feels his arousal. Science would say that what they’re feeling is just hormones, pheromones, something like that. It’s a chemical reaction to physical sensation, an addictive loop fed by feeling.

But even Sherlock Holmes is human enough to know that love is more than the things that bind us; it’s the things that set us free. John doesn’t need to ask, he only needs to say it.

“I love you so much, Sherlock.”

“I love you, too, John.”


End file.
